Buttercups and Daisies
by AnorexicWalrus
Summary: It's the Revolutionary War, and the power-hungry England, as he is face-to-face, eye-to-eye with America, realises that he cannot shoot the boy he loves.


**Buttercups and Daisies**

The rain pounded harshly against the wet, muddy ground, and England snarled just as harshly at the figure before him – the monster he had raised. There he stood, across the field with his men, clad in blue covered with dirt and blood.

America.

That little bastard (although he wasn't so little anymore) had been cheeky enough to try and gain independence.

Pathetic.

England stood alone on the battlefield, wearing red, although he wasn't sure if some of the red was the blood of others, and if so, he knew not whether it was that or friends or enemies. He didn't care either. All he cared about was standing his ground, waiting for the chance to strike.

He was a fair shooter, but he was far better with close-range combat, after his days of pirate swashbuckling, so he was confident that, if just given the chance, he could take America out with one or two swipes of the musket he clutched desperately in his grasp.

His breathing was heavy, as was the atmosphere, but he was strong. He had worked so hard to be as strong as he was, and no rebellious colony was going to get the better of him. He had fought for his power, and he wasn't going to let it go – not now.

England watched America's posture closely, how his muscles tensed and his stare remained fixed on the elder nation before him. He seemed just as determined. England realised that if he were to gain an opportunity, he would have to make some sacrifices.

England slowly relaxed his muscles and dropped his glare to more of a stare, loosening the musket in his grip slightly and steadying his breathing. He had to look like he was done – he had to look vulnerable, so that America would drop his guard.

England barely managed to stifle a smirk as his plan worked, and he could see America relax. The younger nation remained stooped for a minute more, but then slowly raised to a fuller height, slipping a little on the mud as he did so. He smiled triumphantly, with darkness overshadowing his eyes which were bright once upon a time, if England remembered correctly, and he raised his voice for all to hear.

"Hey, Britain! All I want is my freedom! I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother! From now on, consider me independent!"

England gaped at the younger nation. Years ago, that nation had never wanted to be apart from his big brother, bawling and making a fuss whenever they had to part. But now, he was making a fuss at the prospect of being together. England had flashed a few taxes at him, and he'd thrown a right tantrum. He could say he wasn't a child all he wanted, but he couldn't be further from the truth.

**From now on, consider me independent!**

England bared his teeth angrily and furrowed his brow, gathering himself.

"I won't allow it!" he screamed, pelting towards the American, whom was startled by England's outburst.

Quick as lightning, England was face-to-face with America, and his opponent's musket had been thrown to the far side with a crack, landing with a splash in the slippery mud. America, his eyes now alert and shocked, stared down at the musket aimed at his head fearfully. England smirked, pleased to see the fool so clueless, so unsure of what to do.

_See?_,England thought, _You're baffled after only one battle. How did you think you could handle hundreds more once you became independent?_

The men behind America panicked, all raising their weapons at England on command. England didn't falter though. He had the upper-hand: years of experience, and the perfect aim on the enemy – the monster. Just one shot would do the trick. He smirked and steadied the musket, looking into America's eyes, ready to see the life leave them – ready to watch America's downfall and his regained strength and power.

Then he inhaled a shuddery breath as those eyes looked back at him.

Those eyes – so sad, and so blue; the same blue that the sky used to be, before these rainclouds plagued it, and the same blue that England had treasured, all those years ago. They looked at him – no, into him; into his soul – with such innocence and fear, and England found his finger loosening over the trigger.

England also found himself finally noticing the grass, or lack of it thereof. He remembered how this field used to be – covered with fresh greenery that spanned for miles, and he would smile as tiny hands picked buttercups and daisies just for him.

He would smile as those tiny hands held his, and their warmth reached his very core, and for that sweet moment he could forget about strength, or power, or wealth, and just embrace the tranquillity that only that dopey, lopsided grin and those bright, innocent, pure eyes of the most untainted blue could give him.

_I love you, Engwand._

He remembered the love he felt for the tiny boy he walked through this evergreen field with, once upon a time – the memories of just how much this foolish boy meant to him before his hunger for more and more power came crashing down hard, and he gasped silently as he felt himself lower the musket, before dropping it completely, and he dropped with it.

He fell onto the floor, and felt his shoulders shaking violently as he raised his muddy hand to his face in a weak attempt to stop the tears that flowed there.

"Why?" he croaked, mournfully, "Dammit, why?"

A sob was wrenched out of him, and he fell to it, for he had not experienced the feel of crying for so long.

He had been too strong to cry.

"It's not fair." he choked out, not daring to look up at America, for those sad blue eyes were too much for him. He had never wanted to see such sadness on that face – he remembered thinking that long ago. And now he had betrayed his own wishes.

"You know why." England heard America whisper despite the loud murmuring of the surrounding men, and he dissolved into a fit of rampant tears and suffocating breathing as he lowered himself further to the ground.

He wished to be one with the mud, for he was no better than it. He was terrible. He longed desperately to clutch great mounds of it and bury himself within it, never to resurface and make the mistake of choosing greed over love again. Never to betray himself or the ones he loved again.

America watched England cower into the dirt below him, and he recalled a time where England had towered above him, holding his large, safe hand out to take him home, and America had taken it without hesitation, because he had loved and trusted that hand and the man it belonged to.

"I remember when you were great." he said, frowning down at England, who now seemed so unfamiliar to him – a shell of the man he knew long ago.

The shell said nothing, but continued to sob. America almost wanted to place a hand on its shoulder and comfort it, like he had done back when they had met, and England had cried because he was fighting a losing battle for the boy he had wanted and loved so desperately, and America, seeing that France already had everything whilst England had nothing, chose to be with the Briton and make him happy.

Now though, for the sake of freedom and all he and his people had fought for, he had to leave the man unhappy to cry here, and not look back. He turned and walked away with his men, and his ears were plagued with the sorrowful cries of the man he had loved, but he could never go back.

England continued to fight a losing battle against his tears as he heard America walk away, and he clutched at his chest, trying to somehow reach his heart and soothe it to stop it aching. But the aching of his heart would never end; he would forever be pained with regret as he lost the thing he loved most in the world that day. He had carelessly let it slip from his fingers, to be lost forever and never had again.

He frowned, for never again would those hands pick buttercups and daisies just for him.

* * *

**Author's notes: I was just thinking about the Revolutionary War, and how England's mind became warped with the greed for power, making him unable to understand that America didn't sit well with the way he was being ruled, and how he must have remained ignorant up until he was eye-to-eye with America, and he finally looked into his eyes properly and saw what he had missed - the young child and little brother that he had loved before he became corrupt. And then, before I knew it, I was writing this down.  
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!  
Thank you and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: America and England belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


End file.
